TRUE love is not a conquest won,
But a perpetual winning;
A tireless service bravely done
And ever new-beginning;
Gold will not buy it for to-day
Nor keep it for to-morrow,
From Pleasure's path it turns away,
To make its bed with Sorrow.
White, Aphrodite, are thy doves,
But 'neath their snows are burning,
Undying flames, and he who loves
Aspires with flame-like yearning:
Aspires unto a far-off bliss
Whose vision makes him younger,
And moved to rapture by thy kiss,
Still for thy soul doth hunger!